Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Five
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Five
'You wanted to see me, Aunt Vivi?' John kept his voice pitched low and soft as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Vienne was sat in her husband's study. Basil Holmes had photographs of his family on his desk, and Vienne was clutching a silver-framed picture of Sherlock looking sombre in his school uniform. He had been fourteen when that picture was taken. John had teased him about his hair, which was cropped extremely short following a slight miscalculation with a Bunsen burner and some flour.
'Atherton resigned this morning.' She said.
John winced. 'Look, I realise--'
'That's three now. You've been back for a week and already you've driven away three of my staff.'
John sighed and dropped into the chair opposite hers. 'I'm sorry, Vienne.'
She shook her head. 'Don't apologise, John. I won't pretend I like what you've done to my garden,' she gestured to the window, through which John could see the muddy, razor-wire-covered expanse of his training ground. 'But I know why you've done it. Just… tell me all of this madness will help bring him back.'
John hung his head. 'I…can't.' The words tasted of bile, but he said them anyway. He'd gladly lie to himself, but not to her. 'I'm sorry. I wish I could promise you. I wish I could guarantee I'll find him. All I can guarantee is that I won't stop trying.'
She nodded, slowly.
'Any news from Mr Holmes?'
She frowned. 'Redgrave has agreed to fund an expansion on the CCTV network in urban centres. Laurent has consented to lend agents for the next thirty days. Mycroft's security clearance remains unchanged for now.'
'What's he at this time?'
She shook her head. 'I'm not sure. He's not quite secret service, but he's above an MP. I think.'
John laughed, but it was a weak and soundless thing. 'Fastest rising politician in history, I'll wager.'
Vienne shrugged. 'He does what he can.'
'And you?'
Vienne's calm cracked and crumbled, just enough for her eyes to shine a fraction too wetly. 'I do the only thing I can do. I wait. I've given them my time, my descriptions, my money. I've given them everything they could possibly need from me. Now all I have left is waiting.'
'Mum says they're leading another search of the Downs this weekend.'
Vienne looked out the window. 'I'm not going. I can't do it again. I can't stand any more hope. It hurts too deeply when it's gone.'
John licked his lips and hung his head. 'I'll do everything I can.'
'I know you will.' She replied. 'I believe that, at least.'
~~~
'Morning, Sherlock.' Moriarty chirped.
Sherlock glared at him but stood firm. 'Jim.'
'You and my associate seem to be getting on like a house on fire. Seb tells me you've taken to flying together almost every day. Tell me, does John have competition, or are you this easy with all the boys?'
Sherlock clenched his teeth and said nothing, keeping his eyes on Jim.
'You know, we should celebrate. You've been here for more than a month now. I think that calls for a little treat, don't you?'
Jim reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. With a slick smirk, he handed it to Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at it. A tanned man with neatly trimmed facial hair was lying on the ground, a messy hole through one side of his forehead, his face drenched in his own blood. Sherlock studied the image, taking in every detail he could make out.
'I don't understand. I don't know this man.'
Jim snorted. 'Of course not. He's no one important, not to most people. But I'll wager he's very important to lover boy.'
Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Jim.
'That right there is your boyfriend's handiwork. Popped his cherry, you could say.'
Sherlock's stomach flipped and lurched, and his knees started to weaken.
'John's fine, of course. Physically, anyway. Not sure his head is faring too well.'
John. Oh God, John. He was alone with it. Lost. Sherlock knew him, knew this would fester under the surface like an infection. Oh God. Oh God, he was meant to be there. To talk him through it. To listen, to understand.
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Just wanted to see the look on your face. You're losing him, Sherlock. Even if you got away, what would you be coming home to? Would you come home to anything at all. A lot can happen in the course of keeping the peace, Sherlock. John could be dead already--'
Jim didn't get another word out. Sherlock was on him, snarling and clawing at him, pummelling Jim with his fists. Four years of boxing lessons were forgotten in the desperate need to just hurt, to damage Jim into silence. Into nothingness.
It took a moment for him to realise that Jim was laughing at him, and an instant later there was a rough hand in his hair, yanking him back and hurling him to the ground. He yelped and tried to press into the hand, to ease some of the burning pull, but a knee dug into his spine and pushed him flat against the dirt, forcing his neck to bend back into a painful arch.
There was a rustle of feathers, and Greg's voice shouting Moran's name, demanding Sherlock's release. Moran started laughing, the sound low and rough, and pulled harder on Sherlock's hair, making him cry out again. A hand wrapped around Sherlock's wrist, and then his arm was forced behind his back and up, toward his shoulder blades, and Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to make any noise.
He caught sight of Greg out of the corner of one watering eye, saw him rush at Sebastian, felt the crash of their impact, cried out as Seb's continued hold on his wrist forced his shoulder to dislocate before the grip and the weight were both gone.
Through the burn and the throb coming from his shoulder, he heard Jim laughing, all enthusiasm and delight like a child watching the antics of a pet. He tried to focus his eyes, to make sense of the blurry tangle of limbs and movement that was Greg and Moran, but the pain in his shoulder renewed and intensified with every beat of his heart and his vision was going fuzzy and his thoughts were spinning inside his head and everything was hot and angry and hurt.
He heard a loud thump, then. And Moran's voice sounding much too calm.
'All this time and you still don't get it, do you?'
Lestrade gasped and choked, and Sherlock tried to blink things into focus. It looked like Seb was standing over Greg, and Sherlock suspected the larger man's foot was pressed hard into Lestrade's windpipe.
'You're nothing, birdie. You're weak. I can crush you. Right now.'
It was more than Sherlock had ever heard Sebastian say in Jim's presence, and he wished the man had stuck to silence. His voice was like oil crude, thick and dark and somehow sticky. It lingered on the skin, contaminating and persistent.
'I've wanted to do this for two years, Gregory. I'm gonna enjoy watching your lights go out.'
Sherlock made a straggled sound, a bit too forceful to be a sob, but actual words were proving more difficult. He tried again.
'Jim…please!'
He just managed to make out Jim's head snapping toward him. He didn't have to see it, though, to know the slick, reptilian smile was spreading across his lips.
'What's that?' Jim asked, breathless.
'Plea…please.'
'My, my. Are we begging?'
Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to think past the pain, to focus on Greg. 'Yes.' He forced out. 'I'm begging you. Don't kill him.'
Jim chuckled. Sherlock heard his light footsteps coming closer, but didn't open his eyes. A moment later, the steps came to a stop, inches from his face, and he heard Jim's weight shifting downward just before Jim's hand closed around Sherlock's chin, forcing his head upward. Sherlock opened his eyes, and Jim was close enough that Sherlock could make out his features even through the blurred vision.
'What'll you give me?'
'I…' Give him? What could Sherlock possibly give him? Jim had to know Sherlock wasn't broken, that the moment he had access to Jim's secrets he'd use them to enable his escape. 'I don't…'
'Come now, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that there's so much you could give me for Greg's life.' He smiled wider. 'Think about it.'
Greg choked and gurgled, trying to speak, but a sudden silence signalled increased pressure from Seb's boot on his throat.
'I…' Sherlock thought, forced himself to work through the fire in his shoulder, to ignore it and focus on his mind. He swallowed and raised the hand of his good arm to the top button of his shirt, resting his finger's lightly on the plastic, crooking his thumb around the side of the fabric.
Jim scoffed and released Sherlock's chin with a sharp jerk. 'Stop being so pedestrian, Sherlock. I want something more than your body.'
Sherlock froze and locked eyes with Jim, searching the madman's eyes for any hint that he'd reached the wrong conclusion. Jim only smiled again, and tilted his head, lizard-like.
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, please. I can't. Please, Jim. Anything else.'
'Sherlock, I already have everything else. I want your surrender.'
Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. 'I…I can't.'
Jim huffed and shrugged. 'Very well. Seb, have fun!' He turned on his heel and began walking away.
Sherlock heard Greg let out a strangled scream, and his head snapped up. 'Wait!' He shouted.
Jim froze and turned back.
'Yes.' Sherlock said, and even to him his voice sounded broken and pathetic. 'Leave him alone, and it's yours.'
Jim walked back to him and crouched down so their faces were nearly level. He held out his hand. 'Well, then?'
Sherlock looked up at him, unable to hide the misery and the desperation on his features. He licked his lips. 'Let him go, first.'
Jim sighed and rolled his eyes, but he clicked his fingers and snapped, 'Seb. Enough playtime, let him go.'
Seb lifted his foot and stepped away from Greg. Jim watched his order carried out, then looked back at Sherlock, then down at his still out-stretched hand. 'Your turn, sexy.'
Sherlock hung his head and shifted his weight so he didn't need to lean on his good arm to stay upright. He hissed through his teeth as each movement sent another bolt of agony from his arm, then lifted his good hand to his neck. He paused, his whole body shaking, and took a deep breath.
It was difficult, extremely difficult, to work the clasp with one hand, particularly a hand which trembled as violently as his. He fumbled for several long moments before he successfully worked the tiny white gold bar through the tiny white gold loop, and when that was done he held them together tightly. He stayed that way, breathing deeply through his nose, forcing his eyes to stay dry, clenching his teeth together to maintain his silence.
For the first time in nine years, he let the chain fall from his neck, into his hand, and then allowed the necklace to be held by somebody else. He didn't watch the pendant fall into Moriarty's palm. Didn't look at the delicate chain rapidly coiling against Jim's pale skin. He kept his eyes tightly closed, and relinquished his hold on the only tangible link he had to the man he loved.
'Good boy, Sherlock.' Jim smiled, then he rose and turned away. 'Have a nice morning.'
Sherlock held his hand to his neck and let himself sink to the ground. He didn't care about the pain anymore. It belonged to someone else, someone living. He didn't pay attention to Greg's rush to the water, or to the gasping breaths he heaved after Molly had touched his neck and eased the pressure on his throat. He didn't struggle or so much as move when Lestrade slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's body and dragged him toward the water. He was willing to simply drift to the bottom of the lake, to let it claim him completely, fill his lungs and erase him from the world, but Greg and Molly worked together to keep his head above water.
Lestrade braced his hands along Sherlock's injured arm. 'Hold his hand, Moll. Give him something solid while I do this.'
'Sherlock.' Molly's voice crooned. 'It's okay. We're right here.'
'Scream if you need to, mate.' Greg whispered. 'This will hurt.'
There was a jerk and a pop, and white fire behind Sherlock's eyes. He screamed, of course, but it was as if the scream was tearing from someone else's throat. Everything was far away, inconsequential. The swan was gone. His swan. John's swan. Part of him was missing, clutched in Moriarty's cold hands.
He thought, perhaps, that he said something then. But it was another young man's voice, and it didn't matter. Not really.
Greg said, from far away, 'Moll, it's happening. Help him.'
The wave rose to circle his body, but he barely noticed.
'We'll think of something else.' Greg assured him, then the water closed over him entirely, and the pain faded into something manageable. Sherlock waited for the water to go away, then he tucked his head down against his downy breast and swam out to the deep water, where Greg couldn't follow, and where Molly wouldn't. There, he slipped his head under his wing, and willed the world to fade to black.
~~~
There was a picture of John in Sherlock's bedroom. John had yet to touch it. Indeed, he hadn't set foot across the threshold since his return. It was like he was a teenager again, hovering on the periphery of Sherlock's space, unwilling to venture too close.
But tonight was different. Tonight he had woken from a nightmare and it left him shattered and aching and lonely. Tonight, he needed Sherlock. Down to his bones.
Sherlock wasn't there, but his bed was. And his bed smelled of him. His clothes as well, and John was at last willing to break the imaginary barrier if only he could have tangible proof that this, at least, was a world in which his Sherlock existed, and existed in more than memories and wishes.
The photograph was of John in his uniform fatigues. The photo-John was leaning against a wall he recognised as part of the barracks on base, and his head was tilted up to catch the last rays of the setting sun. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, faintly.
The frame was silver, and expensive, and worn from being clutched repeatedly in human hands. There were streaks on the glass where Sherlock's fingers had left a faint oily residue, remnants of wistfully stroking the image of John's face.
John's heart, he believed, could not break any more than it already had. And yet it persisted in fracturing again and again with every new reminder that Sherlock, his Sherlock, wasn't there. And how often had he pulled his favourite photograph of Sherlock from his breast pocket during long days and nights abroad? How badly had it faded from the hot Mediterranean sun and his own sweating fingers? He had it now. He kept it in his breast pocket, when he wore one. Otherwise he folded it up and put it in his wallet. But always it was close.
He sat on Sherlock's bed and pulled out the photograph. He clutched it against his chest, directly over his heart.
'I did what you asked.' He said, whispered really, into the empty room. 'I came home. I kept up my end of the bargain.'
He lay down over the duvet and buried his face in the pillow that still smelled of Sherlock's hair.
'I came back for you, love.' He tried to hold back the tears, afraid they might wash away some of Sherlock's scent. 'So why aren't you here?'
There was no reply, only an empty room and the ghost of a memory.
Later, after John had drifted into an uneasy sleep, Ann walked quietly into the room and pulled the duvet over his body. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, for all the world as though he was six years old again, dreaming up stories about the father he barely remembered.
~~~
That night, for the first time, Sherlock avoided the lake. He didn't want to see his own, human neck, naked and cold without the chain. And so he spent the dark hours unchanged, his human body still trapped somewhere in the deep water. He huddled in his shelter, curled up and closed off despite all of Greg's pleas.
'It's just a sodding necklace!' Lestrade shouted, having reached the end of his tether. 'It's not even proper men's jewellery! It was getting manky and gross, anyway!'
Sherlock didn't move.
Greg paced back and forth in front of the doorway. 'It's not John, you know that, right? It might have come from him, but it's not him. He is out there, somewhere. He's waiting for you. Less than two months, Sherlock! You said you'd be ready.'
Sherlock ignored him.
'Please.' Greg said, soft and miserable. 'Look at me. Say something. Come out to the lake and let me see those gorgeous eyes. Tell me all about John and his not-really-brown hair and his blue eyes and all those other stupid things you talk about all the time. Tell me how you grew up together. Tell me about your kiss. Just say something.'
Sherlock said nothing.
Greg sighed, then there were footsteps, then scraping against bark, then a rustle of feathers.
*Fine, Sherlock. Stay there. Do nothing. Jim was bound to win anyway, might as well give up now and save ourselves the bother.*
Sherlock still said nothing. But, silently and to himself, he very nearly agreed. And that, more than anything, brought him back to the lake the following evening.
~~~
'Basil's offered me my old job back.' Anne remarked over her coffee. Tea just wasn't doing it for her, these days. 'I told him I'd think about it.'
Vienne said nothing. Anne didn't mind it. She understood. She'd been the same for a time, after Daniel had died. But she'd had John and Harry to look after, and it wasn't really such a shock, a soldier who didn't come home. She'd half expected it and, as much as it had torn her apart to admit it, that had helped.
But perhaps for Vienne it was worse. Daniel had died without a trace of hope, just the empty finality in Major Endrick's eyes as his fingers shook around his mug, his voice breaking with apologies and regrets. But Sherlock was a story without an ending, and Vienne's heart was split between hope and belief: hope that her son was alive and coming back; and the belief, buried deep down where she dared not look at or listen to it, that he wasn't.
'What do you think I should do, Vivi? Is it time I went back to work?'
Vienne sighed, and her eyes were empty. 'He thinks I can't manage anymore.'
'Yes.'
'Because I can't.'
'Should I come back to work?'
Vienne looked up at her. 'I need you, Annie.'
Anne nodded and put a hand over Vienne's listless fingers. 'I'll tell Basil to put me back on the books.'
~~~
Greg flew back to the lake just before sunset. Sherlock was already standing in the shallows by the time the dusty brown falcon lighted on the towering tree.
*Are we still doing this?* Greg asked.
Sherlock nodded, the motion faintly comical in the swan body. *We'll find a way. Even without it.*
Greg shifted into his natural shape and nodded. 'I'm…sorry. If I hadn't--'
*Don't. Jim anticipated our plan. It's obvious, really. The only viable plan available to us. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to piece it together. Nothing's changed but that now we know he knows.*
Greg sighed. 'I suppose. Even so…thank you. For saving me.'
Sherlock didn't meet his eye. *No, I-- I didn't do it for you. I can't make it to Sussex on my own, even if I knew the way. My wings aren't strong enough. I need you to bring John here.*
Greg smirked. 'You're clever. You'd find some other way.'
Sherlock stared resolutely at the water. *Your life is worth more than a necklace.*
~~~
Chapter Six
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Five
'You wanted to see me, Aunt Vivi?' John kept his voice pitched low and soft as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Vienne was sat in her husband's study. Basil Holmes had photographs of his family on his desk, and Vienne was clutching a silver-framed picture of Sherlock looking sombre in his school uniform. He had been fourteen when that picture was taken. John had teased him about his hair, which was cropped extremely short following a slight miscalculation with a Bunsen burner and some flour.
'Atherton resigned this morning.' She said.
John winced. 'Look, I realise--'
'That's three now. You've been back for a week and already you've driven away three of my staff.'
John sighed and dropped into the chair opposite hers. 'I'm sorry, Vienne.'
She shook her head. 'Don't apologise, John. I won't pretend I like what you've done to my garden,' she gestured to the window, through which John could see the muddy, razor-wire-covered expanse of his training ground. 'But I know why you've done it. Just… tell me all of this madness will help bring him back.'
John hung his head. 'I…can't.' The words tasted of bile, but he said them anyway. He'd gladly lie to himself, but not to her. 'I'm sorry. I wish I could promise you. I wish I could guarantee I'll find him. All I can guarantee is that I won't stop trying.'
She nodded, slowly.
'Any news from Mr Holmes?'
She frowned. 'Redgrave has agreed to fund an expansion on the CCTV network in urban centres. Laurent has consented to lend agents for the next thirty days. Mycroft's security clearance remains unchanged for now.'
'What's he at this time?'
She shook her head. 'I'm not sure. He's not quite secret service, but he's above an MP. I think.'
John laughed, but it was a weak and soundless thing. 'Fastest rising politician in history, I'll wager.'
Vienne shrugged. 'He does what he can.'
'And you?'
Vienne's calm cracked and crumbled, just enough for her eyes to shine a fraction too wetly. 'I do the only thing I can do. I wait. I've given them my time, my descriptions, my money. I've given them everything they could possibly need from me. Now all I have left is waiting.'
'Mum says they're leading another search of the Downs this weekend.'
Vienne looked out the window. 'I'm not going. I can't do it again. I can't stand any more hope. It hurts too deeply when it's gone.'
John licked his lips and hung his head. 'I'll do everything I can.'
'I know you will.' She replied. 'I believe that, at least.'
~~~
'Morning, Sherlock.' Moriarty chirped.
Sherlock glared at him but stood firm. 'Jim.'
'You and my associate seem to be getting on like a house on fire. Seb tells me you've taken to flying together almost every day. Tell me, does John have competition, or are you this easy with all the boys?'
Sherlock clenched his teeth and said nothing, keeping his eyes on Jim.
'You know, we should celebrate. You've been here for more than a month now. I think that calls for a little treat, don't you?'
Jim reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. With a slick smirk, he handed it to Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at it. A tanned man with neatly trimmed facial hair was lying on the ground, a messy hole through one side of his forehead, his face drenched in his own blood. Sherlock studied the image, taking in every detail he could make out.
'I don't understand. I don't know this man.'
Jim snorted. 'Of course not. He's no one important, not to most people. But I'll wager he's very important to lover boy.'
Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Jim.
'That right there is your boyfriend's handiwork. Popped his cherry, you could say.'
Sherlock's stomach flipped and lurched, and his knees started to weaken.
'John's fine, of course. Physically, anyway. Not sure his head is faring too well.'
John. Oh God, John. He was alone with it. Lost. Sherlock knew him, knew this would fester under the surface like an infection. Oh God. Oh God, he was meant to be there. To talk him through it. To listen, to understand.
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Just wanted to see the look on your face. You're losing him, Sherlock. Even if you got away, what would you be coming home to? Would you come home to anything at all. A lot can happen in the course of keeping the peace, Sherlock. John could be dead already--'
Jim didn't get another word out. Sherlock was on him, snarling and clawing at him, pummelling Jim with his fists. Four years of boxing lessons were forgotten in the desperate need to just hurt, to damage Jim into silence. Into nothingness.
It took a moment for him to realise that Jim was laughing at him, and an instant later there was a rough hand in his hair, yanking him back and hurling him to the ground. He yelped and tried to press into the hand, to ease some of the burning pull, but a knee dug into his spine and pushed him flat against the dirt, forcing his neck to bend back into a painful arch.
There was a rustle of feathers, and Greg's voice shouting Moran's name, demanding Sherlock's release. Moran started laughing, the sound low and rough, and pulled harder on Sherlock's hair, making him cry out again. A hand wrapped around Sherlock's wrist, and then his arm was forced behind his back and up, toward his shoulder blades, and Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to make any noise.
He caught sight of Greg out of the corner of one watering eye, saw him rush at Sebastian, felt the crash of their impact, cried out as Seb's continued hold on his wrist forced his shoulder to dislocate before the grip and the weight were both gone.
Through the burn and the throb coming from his shoulder, he heard Jim laughing, all enthusiasm and delight like a child watching the antics of a pet. He tried to focus his eyes, to make sense of the blurry tangle of limbs and movement that was Greg and Moran, but the pain in his shoulder renewed and intensified with every beat of his heart and his vision was going fuzzy and his thoughts were spinning inside his head and everything was hot and angry and hurt.
He heard a loud thump, then. And Moran's voice sounding much too calm.
'All this time and you still don't get it, do you?'
Lestrade gasped and choked, and Sherlock tried to blink things into focus. It looked like Seb was standing over Greg, and Sherlock suspected the larger man's foot was pressed hard into Lestrade's windpipe.
'You're nothing, birdie. You're weak. I can crush you. Right now.'
It was more than Sherlock had ever heard Sebastian say in Jim's presence, and he wished the man had stuck to silence. His voice was like oil crude, thick and dark and somehow sticky. It lingered on the skin, contaminating and persistent.
'I've wanted to do this for two years, Gregory. I'm gonna enjoy watching your lights go out.'
Sherlock made a straggled sound, a bit too forceful to be a sob, but actual words were proving more difficult. He tried again.
'Jim…please!'
He just managed to make out Jim's head snapping toward him. He didn't have to see it, though, to know the slick, reptilian smile was spreading across his lips.
'What's that?' Jim asked, breathless.
'Plea…please.'
'My, my. Are we begging?'
Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to think past the pain, to focus on Greg. 'Yes.' He forced out. 'I'm begging you. Don't kill him.'
Jim chuckled. Sherlock heard his light footsteps coming closer, but didn't open his eyes. A moment later, the steps came to a stop, inches from his face, and he heard Jim's weight shifting downward just before Jim's hand closed around Sherlock's chin, forcing his head upward. Sherlock opened his eyes, and Jim was close enough that Sherlock could make out his features even through the blurred vision.
'What'll you give me?'
'I…' Give him? What could Sherlock possibly give him? Jim had to know Sherlock wasn't broken, that the moment he had access to Jim's secrets he'd use them to enable his escape. 'I don't…'
'Come now, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that there's so much you could give me for Greg's life.' He smiled wider. 'Think about it.'
Greg choked and gurgled, trying to speak, but a sudden silence signalled increased pressure from Seb's boot on his throat.
'I…' Sherlock thought, forced himself to work through the fire in his shoulder, to ignore it and focus on his mind. He swallowed and raised the hand of his good arm to the top button of his shirt, resting his finger's lightly on the plastic, crooking his thumb around the side of the fabric.
Jim scoffed and released Sherlock's chin with a sharp jerk. 'Stop being so pedestrian, Sherlock. I want something more than your body.'
Sherlock froze and locked eyes with Jim, searching the madman's eyes for any hint that he'd reached the wrong conclusion. Jim only smiled again, and tilted his head, lizard-like.
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, please. I can't. Please, Jim. Anything else.'
'Sherlock, I already have everything else. I want your surrender.'
Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. 'I…I can't.'
Jim huffed and shrugged. 'Very well. Seb, have fun!' He turned on his heel and began walking away.
Sherlock heard Greg let out a strangled scream, and his head snapped up. 'Wait!' He shouted.
Jim froze and turned back.
'Yes.' Sherlock said, and even to him his voice sounded broken and pathetic. 'Leave him alone, and it's yours.'
Jim walked back to him and crouched down so their faces were nearly level. He held out his hand. 'Well, then?'
Sherlock looked up at him, unable to hide the misery and the desperation on his features. He licked his lips. 'Let him go, first.'
Jim sighed and rolled his eyes, but he clicked his fingers and snapped, 'Seb. Enough playtime, let him go.'
Seb lifted his foot and stepped away from Greg. Jim watched his order carried out, then looked back at Sherlock, then down at his still out-stretched hand. 'Your turn, sexy.'
Sherlock hung his head and shifted his weight so he didn't need to lean on his good arm to stay upright. He hissed through his teeth as each movement sent another bolt of agony from his arm, then lifted his good hand to his neck. He paused, his whole body shaking, and took a deep breath.
It was difficult, extremely difficult, to work the clasp with one hand, particularly a hand which trembled as violently as his. He fumbled for several long moments before he successfully worked the tiny white gold bar through the tiny white gold loop, and when that was done he held them together tightly. He stayed that way, breathing deeply through his nose, forcing his eyes to stay dry, clenching his teeth together to maintain his silence.
For the first time in nine years, he let the chain fall from his neck, into his hand, and then allowed the necklace to be held by somebody else. He didn't watch the pendant fall into Moriarty's palm. Didn't look at the delicate chain rapidly coiling against Jim's pale skin. He kept his eyes tightly closed, and relinquished his hold on the only tangible link he had to the man he loved.
'Good boy, Sherlock.' Jim smiled, then he rose and turned away. 'Have a nice morning.'
Sherlock held his hand to his neck and let himself sink to the ground. He didn't care about the pain anymore. It belonged to someone else, someone living. He didn't pay attention to Greg's rush to the water, or to the gasping breaths he heaved after Molly had touched his neck and eased the pressure on his throat. He didn't struggle or so much as move when Lestrade slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's body and dragged him toward the water. He was willing to simply drift to the bottom of the lake, to let it claim him completely, fill his lungs and erase him from the world, but Greg and Molly worked together to keep his head above water.
Lestrade braced his hands along Sherlock's injured arm. 'Hold his hand, Moll. Give him something solid while I do this.'
'Sherlock.' Molly's voice crooned. 'It's okay. We're right here.'
'Scream if you need to, mate.' Greg whispered. 'This will hurt.'
There was a jerk and a pop, and white fire behind Sherlock's eyes. He screamed, of course, but it was as if the scream was tearing from someone else's throat. Everything was far away, inconsequential. The swan was gone. His swan. John's swan. Part of him was missing, clutched in Moriarty's cold hands.
He thought, perhaps, that he said something then. But it was another young man's voice, and it didn't matter. Not really.
Greg said, from far away, 'Moll, it's happening. Help him.'
The wave rose to circle his body, but he barely noticed.
'We'll think of something else.' Greg assured him, then the water closed over him entirely, and the pain faded into something manageable. Sherlock waited for the water to go away, then he tucked his head down against his downy breast and swam out to the deep water, where Greg couldn't follow, and where Molly wouldn't. There, he slipped his head under his wing, and willed the world to fade to black.
~~~
There was a picture of John in Sherlock's bedroom. John had yet to touch it. Indeed, he hadn't set foot across the threshold since his return. It was like he was a teenager again, hovering on the periphery of Sherlock's space, unwilling to venture too close.
But tonight was different. Tonight he had woken from a nightmare and it left him shattered and aching and lonely. Tonight, he needed Sherlock. Down to his bones.
Sherlock wasn't there, but his bed was. And his bed smelled of him. His clothes as well, and John was at last willing to break the imaginary barrier if only he could have tangible proof that this, at least, was a world in which his Sherlock existed, and existed in more than memories and wishes.
The photograph was of John in his uniform fatigues. The photo-John was leaning against a wall he recognised as part of the barracks on base, and his head was tilted up to catch the last rays of the setting sun. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, faintly.
The frame was silver, and expensive, and worn from being clutched repeatedly in human hands. There were streaks on the glass where Sherlock's fingers had left a faint oily residue, remnants of wistfully stroking the image of John's face.
John's heart, he believed, could not break any more than it already had. And yet it persisted in fracturing again and again with every new reminder that Sherlock, his Sherlock, wasn't there. And how often had he pulled his favourite photograph of Sherlock from his breast pocket during long days and nights abroad? How badly had it faded from the hot Mediterranean sun and his own sweating fingers? He had it now. He kept it in his breast pocket, when he wore one. Otherwise he folded it up and put it in his wallet. But always it was close.
He sat on Sherlock's bed and pulled out the photograph. He clutched it against his chest, directly over his heart.
'I did what you asked.' He said, whispered really, into the empty room. 'I came home. I kept up my end of the bargain.'
He lay down over the duvet and buried his face in the pillow that still smelled of Sherlock's hair.
'I came back for you, love.' He tried to hold back the tears, afraid they might wash away some of Sherlock's scent. 'So why aren't you here?'
There was no reply, only an empty room and the ghost of a memory.
Later, after John had drifted into an uneasy sleep, Ann walked quietly into the room and pulled the duvet over his body. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, for all the world as though he was six years old again, dreaming up stories about the father he barely remembered.
~~~
That night, for the first time, Sherlock avoided the lake. He didn't want to see his own, human neck, naked and cold without the chain. And so he spent the dark hours unchanged, his human body still trapped somewhere in the deep water. He huddled in his shelter, curled up and closed off despite all of Greg's pleas.
'It's just a sodding necklace!' Lestrade shouted, having reached the end of his tether. 'It's not even proper men's jewellery! It was getting manky and gross, anyway!'
Sherlock didn't move.
Greg paced back and forth in front of the doorway. 'It's not John, you know that, right? It might have come from him, but it's not him. He is out there, somewhere. He's waiting for you. Less than two months, Sherlock! You said you'd be ready.'
Sherlock ignored him.
'Please.' Greg said, soft and miserable. 'Look at me. Say something. Come out to the lake and let me see those gorgeous eyes. Tell me all about John and his not-really-brown hair and his blue eyes and all those other stupid things you talk about all the time. Tell me how you grew up together. Tell me about your kiss. Just say something.'
Sherlock said nothing.
Greg sighed, then there were footsteps, then scraping against bark, then a rustle of feathers.
*Fine, Sherlock. Stay there. Do nothing. Jim was bound to win anyway, might as well give up now and save ourselves the bother.*
Sherlock still said nothing. But, silently and to himself, he very nearly agreed. And that, more than anything, brought him back to the lake the following evening.
~~~
'Basil's offered me my old job back.' Anne remarked over her coffee. Tea just wasn't doing it for her, these days. 'I told him I'd think about it.'
Vienne said nothing. Anne didn't mind it. She understood. She'd been the same for a time, after Daniel had died. But she'd had John and Harry to look after, and it wasn't really such a shock, a soldier who didn't come home. She'd half expected it and, as much as it had torn her apart to admit it, that had helped.
But perhaps for Vienne it was worse. Daniel had died without a trace of hope, just the empty finality in Major Endrick's eyes as his fingers shook around his mug, his voice breaking with apologies and regrets. But Sherlock was a story without an ending, and Vienne's heart was split between hope and belief: hope that her son was alive and coming back; and the belief, buried deep down where she dared not look at or listen to it, that he wasn't.
'What do you think I should do, Vivi? Is it time I went back to work?'
Vienne sighed, and her eyes were empty. 'He thinks I can't manage anymore.'
'Yes.'
'Because I can't.'
'Should I come back to work?'
Vienne looked up at her. 'I need you, Annie.'
Anne nodded and put a hand over Vienne's listless fingers. 'I'll tell Basil to put me back on the books.'
~~~
Greg flew back to the lake just before sunset. Sherlock was already standing in the shallows by the time the dusty brown falcon lighted on the towering tree.
*Are we still doing this?* Greg asked.
Sherlock nodded, the motion faintly comical in the swan body. *We'll find a way. Even without it.*
Greg shifted into his natural shape and nodded. 'I'm…sorry. If I hadn't--'
*Don't. Jim anticipated our plan. It's obvious, really. The only viable plan available to us. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to piece it together. Nothing's changed but that now we know he knows.*
Greg sighed. 'I suppose. Even so…thank you. For saving me.'
Sherlock didn't meet his eye. *No, I-- I didn't do it for you. I can't make it to Sussex on my own, even if I knew the way. My wings aren't strong enough. I need you to bring John here.*
Greg smirked. 'You're clever. You'd find some other way.'
Sherlock stared resolutely at the water. *Your life is worth more than a necklace.*
~~~
Chapter Six